


The Art of Receiving Affection

by cryptidPrince



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blue Lions Route spoilers, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Game, Spoilers, boyfriend shirt, emotions and sappy romantic sex, gentle loving smut, softe content, we need more Dimidue content in the world so here is my contribution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 21:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidPrince/pseuds/cryptidPrince
Summary: It’s still a new concept: allowing himself to be taken care of. Allowing himself to desire Dimitri like this.





	The Art of Receiving Affection

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This Dimidue Art (from Twitter)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/508879) by Worvies. 

> I need a shirt that says "I played the Blue Lions route first and all I got was a handful of feels, a new OTP, and this T-shirt". I love these good good boys.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The last blush of dusk falls from the horizon just as Dedue and Dimitri return from yet another political outing, full of ceremony and politicking.

“I must admit that I do not envy you,” Dedue chuckles as he stands at the sink, gently re-shaving the coarse pale hair growing on his neck and jaw. Dimitri laughs from the dresser by their shared bed.

“What, you aren’t excited by the idea of hearing the good Lord Gloucester’s complaints about crop yields this season? I am beginning to see why Claude was so eager to leave. I have half a mind to go hire a ship to drag him back to Fodlan so that I may foist the responsibility back onto his shoulders.”

Dedue has to pause as he laughs, shaving the last patch of rough silver whiskers and setting the blade down in the wash basin. He’s still unused to these fine implements (all nice shiny steel, when once upon his time he resorted to using a dagger and his reflection in a pond to do the same during the years he spent searching for Dimitri in the war) and tries to fight how wrong they feel in his big, calloused hands.

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it as Dimitri returns to the bathroom and Dedue stops in his tracks. Dimitri-- in all his long-limbed, beautifully lithe, deceptively strong glory-- is currently draped in Dedue’s dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and even broad as Dimitri is, Dedue’s shoulders are broader and his frame larger. The shirt falls only to the tops of his thighs and just crests the boundary of indecent. His hair is tied back so that Dedue finds himself noticing the soft wispy strands at the nape of his neck, and feels an overwhelming desire to run his hands through them.

“How do I look?” Dimitri grins, visible eye crinkling with the smile. Even as he can tell that Dimitri himself is fidgeting in anticipation, Dedue is sure that his face has turned the color of a ripe tomato.

“Y-- your majes— I mean, Dimitri--”

And that smile only widens, the hint of an affectionate huff. It’s easy to see the way he’s blushing against his comparatively pale skin, “Good catch. We will break you of that habit yet.”

Dedue himself only has his dress pants still on and yet he is suddenly very certain that both of them need to be wearing less right now. 

“I’ve had a long, difficult day of being a very respectable king,” Dimitri states primly, stepping closer to take Dedue’s hand in his and lace their fingers together so that their wedding rings softly _ clink _, “I’m tired, and would love nothing more than to relax with my cherished husband. Come to bed?”

He knows full well that Dedue would never say no to that. 

Dimitri takes Dedue’s hands and settles them on his body, encouraging him to touch. Dedue follows the guidance: one traces the proud line of Dimitri’s cheekbone as the other finds the jut of his hip. He leans up to kiss him and he answers with his lips as Dimitri backs Dedue up against the wall, one bare thigh easing between Dedue’s and gently pressing into the space between. He can’t help the full-body shiver that raises every hair on his arms when Dimitri’s hands begin trailing towards the curve of his ass.

“You are eager tonight,” Dedue chuckles into their kiss and smiles against him.

“I am,” He admits, a little sheepish as he pulls away to look up at his husband. Dimitri’s thumb traces the scar running over Dedue’s lips, “To be able to do this with you so freely is a joy; a joy that I, for one, do not intend to miss out on.”

“I would not want to miss out on it either, particularly when my husband dresses up so nicely for the occasion.”

That makes Dimitri grin. Every time Dedue lets himself joke or snark or utter anything to express the delightful mind behind that knightly stoicism feels like a private little victory— once upon a time Dedue would never have allowed himself to speak so freely. Now, he gets to enjoy the myriad jabs and asides he always knew Dedue must be thinking even as he kept them to himself. He really is a quick-witted man with a sharp sense of humor, something so few people appreciate.

“What do you want to do right now?”

Dedue pauses.

“What do you mean?”

Dimitri smiles, cocks his head to the side, “To me. What would you like right now? Or what would you have me do for you?”

That certainly is an interesting question. Dedue looks down at him, a little lost, “You know I would like to make love to you.”

“Alright. But more specifically.”

He is angling for something, and Dedue thinks he may know what; yet still, the best way forward is the most direct path, “Why are you asking me this?”

“Because I want to,” Dimitri’s expression softens, and one of his hands lifts to run his fingers through the close-cropped white of his hair, “Even now you spend so much time doing your all to make me happy, and I would like to do the same.”

“Being with you makes me happy--”

“I know,” He cuts him off, “But you so rarely ask anything of me and give so much of yourself, and I can’t help but feel that you deserve someone giving _you_ all you wish as well.”

Dedue must be looking particularly dolorous because when Dimitri kisses him it’s on his forehead, as though he could smooth out the stubborn line of his brow with his lips, “Out in the world people may think you are still my knight, my vassal, but you are so much more. To me you will always be my love and my husband— and we are equals in everything, Dedue. Everything. I simply hope that one day you will believe it, too.”

Dedue allows himself a little smile, and Dimitri is sure to take his hand and squeeze. The weight of his one-eyed gaze rests heavy on Dedue’s shoulders.

“Do you believe me, Dedue?”

He can’t say “yes” and be an honest man. Dedue squeezes his hand back, “I… I want to.”

“I’ll prove it,” Dimitri replies with all the confidence of someone born to royal blood. He tugs Dedue gently into the bedroom.

It’s been a month since they moved in properly and the whole space is still filled with the old royal furniture that somehow doesn’t feel very reminiscent of either of them, but neither can argue with the grand four poster bed draped in royal blue and silver that they have both taken to (with gusto) ever since they moved in. It is big and soft and the sheets are finer than anything Dedue has ever felt in his life. He sits back on the silky fabric, Dimitri crawling into his lap, and leans against the headboard.

They fall into an easy rhythm, a slow roil of kissing and friction that’s comfortable. Familiar. Dedue reaches over to tug his shirt off of Dimitri and the two of them make quick work of the buttons to toss it to the floor in favor of letting Dedue’s hands run all over Dimitri’s chest and sides as they trace every little scar, every hard-fought victory that left its mark, lingering over the one right above Dimitri’s heart. He kisses it, kisses up that lovely neck and beneath his jaw to the place he knows makes his handsome king gasp, where he can feel his pulse and be reassured that they are both, in fact, alive despite it all. 

“Let me take care of you,” Dimitri looks down at him from the private little throne that is Dedue’s lap, smiling softly as he leans over to kiss him again.

“You don’t have to--”

“I want to,” Dimitri cuts him off, firm and with conviction. “Please.”

It’s still a new concept: allowing himself to be taken care of. Allowing himself to _ desire _ Dimitri like this. There were nights back when they were students that Dedue was in his room and was, as young men are wont to do, taking care of himself. The fantasies he entertained were usually with some faceless, nameless stranger, a safe anonymity within his own imagination; that is, until he realized that he’d started imagining the stranger had eyes the color of forget-me-nots, and blonde hair that fell just so in his face, and oh how he realized that it was Dimitri he wanted to be making love to all too late, coming all over his lonely hand. He felt so guilty for that. Every time it came to his mind. For years. And the fantasy was more than just sex— he wanted to hold his hand, to kiss him, to be the one on his arm at the student ball and to whirl around the dance floor in place of whatever milquetoast girl got the chance to waltz with his prince. His beautiful, wonderful, untouchable prince. The love of his life. Of course it was a shock to then learn that Dimitri had been thinking of him the same way after all these years. 

It doesn’t do to dwell on miseries past with a happy ending like that, particularly considering the joys of the present: here and now he has said love of his life on his lap, in his bed, smiling and beautiful after all they survived together hand in hand. He is a very lucky man, perhaps an unworthy one; but Dimitri believes he is worthy, and perhaps if he can’t believe in his own worthiness, he can believe in the worthiness Dimitri sees in him.

So, after a long moment watching those forget-me-not eyes study the pensive lives grooved into his expression, Dedue relents, “Alright.”

“Alright?” Dimitri brightens, “Wonderful, love. Now tell me— what would you like tonight? I’m all yours.”

“I—“ What would he like? He remembers those old fantasies, how Dimitri arched over him and cried out his name. He could make that a reality. The possibility is too tempting to pass up, “I would like you in my lap, like this,” He asks, adds, “Riding me.” 

Dedue’s face is cherry red, he’s certain, as he adds a quiet: “Please.” 

Dimitri grins, leans over to kiss him like the sweetest reward, “That sounds wonderful. I’ll get ready.”

He slides down Dedue’s body and reaches for their supplies from the bedside table, as well as shucks his own underwear so he is now bare and proud and somehow still regal before him. Perhaps it really is proof of his royal lineage that Dimitri looks like a king even completely naked.

He finds the bottle, lifts it and uncorks it, lets some oil drip onto his fingers and sets it aside, each movement a show for Dedue’s attentive gaze. Dimitri glances up at him, smiles from under the soft wispy fringe of hair that found its way out of his short ponytail, and crawls back into Dedue’s lap. 

“Please, I can help,” he offers, sitting up and reaching out to where Dimitri’s fingers are working— one, then two, three— but Dimitri catches his wrist with his free hand and chuckles, the sound low and hot against his cheek as Dimitri leans in.

“Do you want to help, or feel like you are supposed to? If it would make you happy, then by all means. But don’t do it out of a sense of obligation. Let me put on a show for you.”

Two possibilities play out in tandem: Dimitri, fucking himself back onto Dedue’s fingers, happy and blissful; or Dimitri, on his own fingers, saying Dedue’s name like a prayer as he wishes it was Dedue inside of him. Oh, both of those are wonderful.

He chooses the latter, and lets his hand return to the bed. Dimitri smiles and sits back, turning so Dedue can see now where those fingers (up to three) disappear into his body like he needs them, wants more, but cannot satisfy that urge with only his hands. Bathed in the flicker of candlelight, scarred and muscled and soft before him, breath hitching and sighing, Dimitri looks like a vision out of his most private fantasies. Dedue swallows the tight coil of his throat as Dimitri adds a fourth finger.

“Dimitri…”

“My name always did sound wonderful in your mouth,” he smiles, “Say it again for me?”

“Dimitri,” Dedue repeats, and begins taking off his pants. His underwear soon follow.

“Do you want to touch yourself, looking at me?” Dimitri asks. He almost looks a little sheepish-- a strangely sweet expression on someone panting, already stiff and leaking as he’s working himself over, “You can, you know. If you want to.”

Dedue’s reply is to let his hand drift down, to curl around his erection and shiver at the contact that only seems to stoke the need smoldering inside of him. Dimitri pulls him in for another kiss, this one hot and desperate, urging him closer as though he can’t seem to stand being apart for one second longer.

“Dedue, I— I need you inside me,” he nearly chokes on a moan, pushing back onto his own fingers and it’s not enough, “I need you-- goddess, so bad. Please, do you want me? I’m ready for you.”

Looking up at him— flushed pink from ears to chest, painfully hard and leaking onto Dedue’s stomach, eyes blown out and searching his face desperately— Dedue has never been more ready for anything in his life.

“Please, Dimitri,” he replies, “I need you too.”

And he does not need any more encouragement. Dimitri removes his fingers, lines himself up carefully, and kisses Dedue once more. It surprises both of them when Dedue finds himself holding his husband by the thighs and gently easing him down, down, down--

“Ah!” 

Dimitri’s breath catches in his throat as Dedue’s head pushes inside of him, breaching that first ring of muscle as his mouth falls open in agape pleasure. Dimitri in a state of sex is perhaps the most beautiful vision in existence: head tipped back, throat lovely and pale and bared to him, his good eye dripping tears of joy as a wreath of light from the window frames his ecstasy like some hand-carved statue of a saint that was too erotic for a church. He would worship at the altar of this man-- he already does-- and after tonight, he is certain Dimitri would gladly worship at the altar of him. The immensity of that feeling settles in his chest.

Every inch or so Dedue pauses, letting his prince breathe around the stretch. Each time they repeat little words of care: 

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

And deeper he climbs. Soon Dimitri is relaxed and open, letting Dedue slide home like he was made to be there, and oh he feels like he might have been. They rest as Dimitri is fully seated on him. Both of them panting.

“I would like you to ride me whenever you are ready,” Dedue says softly, letting his fingers sweep through the fine locks of Dimitri’s hair. He kisses him, an affirmation. Dimitri smiles.

“I can do that,” He huffs.

“And I would--” Dedue hesitates, “I would like to leave, um. A mark. On you. Nowhere anyone would see, I promise. Below your shirt collar, perhaps.”

Dimitri’s eyebrows lift and suddenly Dedue feels horribly embarrassed, even as he is hilt-deep in this man, because he may have overstepped a line he did not know existed, “I’m sorry, I--”

“No! No, don’t be sorry, I would like that very much I’m just--” Dimitri chuckles gently and Dedue can feel it in the way his muscles ripple around him, “I’m just surprised, that’s all. You have my permission. Even my enthusiasm.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Dedue lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Slowly, tentatively, he leans in to kiss his husband’s collarbone and opens his mouth to suck a blooming purple bruise. For his part, Dimitri shudders and sighs happily.

“Yes…”

Oh, to hear that sigh for the rest of his days. He could die happy on the sound of that sigh. Dedue pulls away to look at his handiwork and the sight of a debauched Dimitri proudly wearing the shape of his mouth on his body like a million royal medals does something to his heart. To his need.

“I would like to move now,” He looks up, eyes blown wide and mouth ajar. Dedue needs this man, he needs him moaning, he needs to feel him fall apart on him and him alone, needs to hear Dimitri cry out his name so loud the house staff might hear and would know that it is him-- his King’s husband, bringing him to the brink of pleasure and beyond over and over and over again--

Dimitri must sense that sudden drive because both of their mouths rush forward and meet in a tangle at the center all at once: lips and tongue and moans as Dedue uses his grip to lift Dimitri up and push him back down in one smooth motion, a long thrust that makes Dimitri’s kiss stutter around a high whine of desire.

“Yes--” He cries, and Dedue would never deny him, would never want to. He fucks Dimitri back down onto him once more, and then again, again, again, until he cannot stop the runaway pace as Dimitri bounces himself in Dedue’s lap with all the desperation of a man who has seen death and chosen life as his to live. This is their life together, their life that they own, as husbands, as lovers-- and fuck if they aren’t going to make love so vibrant and loud and joyful that they dare the world not to hear.

“Dimitri-- Dimitri--” Dedue has gone past the point of allowance and finds himself babbling a stream of his love’s name, and praises, and happy sounds, “Yes, so good-- ah, Dimitri--”

And every time he says his name Dimitri echoes back a moan, a cry, a call, “Love-- fuck, yes, harder, please-- need-- ah! Yes yes yes Dedue yes--”

They are both hurtling towards the inevitable edge, the pinnacle that is growing larger and larger and closer and closer, their bodies drawing tight in anticipation even as they push themselves faster towards it without hesitation. Dedue sits up and flips them over, Dimitri practically shouting joy as he is pinned to the mattress and happily feels his husband take what he needs and what Dimitri will always give him-- pleasure, so much pleasure, so much love that he cannot-- will not- contain it all-- Dedue’s hand pulling at him desperately to push him over the edge--

And Dimitri comes. His whole body ripples around Dedue and suddenly he’s releasing all over his stomach and Dedue’s hand, flows over him in drowning waves that crest and crest until they begin to subside even as Dedue still searches for his release in thrust after thrust with fervor inside of him.

“Come on, love,” Dimitri is breathless and sensitive and overstimulated, watching him be so close to completion and needing to see them both to the finish, “Dedue, please-- you can come inside, please--”

And Dedue’s thrusts stutter, driving home in finale, before he cries out and stiffens and empties all of himself inside his husband. 

It takes a moment to return from the coital high. Dedue is panting, still curled above Dimitri where they are connected, now rapidly softening. He pulls out (and oh, how the surreal and beautiful image of his own cum seeping out of a blissed-out Dimitri will stay indelible in his memory until the day he dies) and lets himself fall onto the bed beside his husband.

“Wow,” Dimitri breathes, grinning. He shifts to look over at Dedue as they both catch their breath, “Love, that was-- you were amazing.”

In lieu of a response Dedue smiles back, leans over to kiss him. He glances down to where they are both still very messy and lets his finger drag through the small puddle on Dimitri’s stomach.

"Hm," He studies it for a thoughtful moment, as though considering what they have just done, before putting his fingertip (come and all) into his mouth.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Dimitri chuckles as their legs tangle together.

“I know,” Dedue replies, his own expression growing the slightest bit cheeky, “But I wanted to.”


End file.
